I Know You'll Find Me
by H8rOfToast8899
Summary: It has been months since the Reichenbach fall, and John Watson is moving on with his life- until he gets knocked over by a stranger in the street, who actually isn't as strange to John as some would think. Could become a chapter story, but frankly I doubt it. Rated K for one bad word.
1. Chapter 1

John Hamish Watson was at a coffee house with a pretty girl.

The pretty girl inquestion was named Alcie Versaines, and she was a reporter with big, brown, mascaraed eyes and long curly red hair. She had, at first, been sent to interview him about Sherlock's unpleasant end, but they actually got along quite nicely.

This was their fifth date.

On their first date together, John had been tense, subconciously waiting for Sherlock to burst through the Chinese restaurant door and ruin every chance he had. But Sherlock didn't. Because Sherlock was...

He had been tense on his second date, also; tapping nervously, glancing at the door.

It was their third date that he realized that no one was coming.

And somehow, that bothered him most of all. But he continued on, enjoying himself to the best of his abilities.

And they had a fourth date, and a fifth. Alcie was a very charming woman, who traveled and studied. She was smart and witty, and made him genuinely laugh for the first time in months. They were planning to go to Egypt together in the summer, and John, surprisingly, couldn't wait. He really, truly liked this girl.

But _he _was there, always in the back of his mind, whispering comparisons between this girl and _him._

_Sherlock._

John knew, all along, that he would have to face the guilt sometime. The guilt of replacing him. It wasn't as though he and Sherlock actually had anything other than a platonic relationship, but he couldn't deny that there had been something special between them. They had saved each other; He had saved Sherlock from being alone and becoming a possible murderer, and Sherlock had saved him from himself. Because Sherlock knew, all along, that John would destroy himself in the end. And he would've. Deep in his bones, he knew. He would be his own destruction- if someone didn't save him first.

John swallowed a quick gulp of his coffee and realized that Alcie was standing, pulling her coat off the back of her chair and laughing at something she had said. Or something someone else had said- he couldn't really remember at the moment. All he could see, suddenly, as though someone had hit a spotlight, was Alcie. The way the light reflected off her hair, her face, her eyes...

Damn it all, he loved her.

He grinned, putting down the exact change for the meal and escorting Alcie to the door, where they parted ways with a fond, farewell hug.

It was snowing. It was December now, only...what? Three, four months since 'the incident', as he had taken to calling it. John leaned a little more on his cane and slipped his hat, his favorite hat that Sherlock had thrown his way one day to hide him from paparazzi, over his ears and set off with the crowd, his limp being more noticeable and painful than ever.

Someone bumped into him. It set him off balance, made him topple into a snowbank. A dark, shadowy, tall figure stood over him.

It looked vaguely familiar.

"Sorry about that," The stranger murmured, extending a hand to him. Except it wasn't a stranger at all- the voice, the coat, the scarf. Even the hat that was pulled down so low his hair was hidden. It was all so familiar, so comfortingly ordinary, that John was completely taken by utter surprise.

John numbly took the hand and allowed the person to pull him up, grabbing his cane with his opposite hand. As soon as he was on his feet, he did the one thing that he knew would ensure that it was him.

John Hamish Watson looked directly into the strangers eyes.

And they were painstakingly familiar. The exact same.

"Sherlock?" He whispered, slowly poking the taller man in the shoulder. He didn't want this to be fake. He couldn't afford it.

The man tipped his hat up, showing his grave, drawn face. "I'm so sorry," Sherlock Holmes said quietly.

Suddenly, the two men were in an alleyway, safe from prying eyes, and John had to gasp for air suddenly, because Sherlock was holding a rag over his mouth that smelled like...like...

* * *

John bolted up in bed, gasping. His lungs seemed to be screaming for oxygen, and he couldn't get enough of it.

It was dark out. He was in his pajamas. He was in bed.

He had been dreaming.

John groaned, letting himself flop back onto his pillow. A dream. That was all it had been. A stupid dream.

He was so stupid to think Sherlock would come back. It had taken him a month to stop believing that Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was dead.

It still struck a bit of pain inside to think the words, but he knew they were true. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Furious with himself for dreaming of his lost friend, John turned on his side, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and closed his eyes.

Then he opened them again.

He opened them again because, in front of his face, in the corner next to his bedroom door, was a chair. And on that chair, was a rumpled pile of clothes.

The same clothes he had been wearing in his dream...

Jumping up faster than he had in a while, John rushed over to the pile of laundry. It was all there. Every last bit. He could still remember having to wipe off mustard from his cardigan- the stain was still there, on the neck.

But that had been in the dream.

The dream had been real.

But that meant...

Suddenly, John noticed a piece of paper lying on the ground. It had been knocked off the top of the pile when he had dug through them. He picked it up hesitantly, with shaking fingers.

There were two letters on the ripped paper. Just two.

**S.H.**

* * *

Sherlock grinned as he watched his old friend's eyes widen. He steepled his fingers, leaning back in his chair.

"Don't worry, John," He murmured, watching the shock turn to joy on his blogger's face. "I know you'll find me."

* * *

**I don't own Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. I do, however, own Alcie Versaines. She is my character.**


	2. Chapter 2

John woke up the next morning and, after opening his palm to reveal Sherlock's crumpled note, burned with a vengeance. He wasn't quite sure to whom it was towards, but he had a good idea. He bounded out of bed and reached for his cane, feeling the trustworthy oak material under his palm. He imagined whacking Sherlock with it for being gone so long. John grinned. New goal.

Limping his way towards the kitchen, John grabbed the morning newspaper and his mug.

Not his mug, no.

Sherlock's mug.

When he realized what he had done, John dropped the cup like it was on fire, then, with lightning fast agility, grabbed it before it could hit the ground. He deposited it onto the table gingerly and studied it for a moment. He had never actually looked at Sherlock's mug before, he had only grumbled nonsense at it as he would make Sherlock a requested cup of coffee- with two extra shots of the liquid caffeine that were always next to the sugar jar. The offending mug was a burnt orange, with a leaf pattern that danced up the sides and swirled around. The handle was fashioned to look like a tree branch, except in place of the original brown of a tree, the carefully designed bark was orange. In every crevice was a delicate painting of green, casting a beautiful mystical look onto the mug. Tentatively, John picked it up and examined it closer. His fingers touched the bottom of the mug, but he quickly pulled away, realizing the bottom was wet. John started when he saw that his fingers had been stained black.

Paint.

Quickly, he turned the cup over, and saw that he had smudged a big black line in the middle of what had been newly painted on. But it wasn't hard to read at all, since it was obvious what it would be.

S.H.

Sherlock was being dragged by a big burly man with far too much chest hair to be real.

Mycroft had sent him, of course; As soon as his older brother had realized Sherlock was gone, he had called in some of the wiliest. Obviously, Mycroft didn't believe Sherlock to be safe just yet, although he was. Well. Not completely.

Sherlock was malnourished. It was his way of going on strike against Mycroft- either he was allowed out, or he would die trying. He had managed to escape again after being thrown back in that night, but not before going to John and his flat and leaving a message. He trusted John would find it.

His thoughts were abruptly pulled away from him when he was thrown on the floor and the door was closed behind him. Mycroft stood in front of him, his face both furious and relieved.

"How many times," Mycroft growled, looking down at his brother on the floor. A nasty grimace took over his face. "Have I _told you?_"

Steadily but shakily, Sherlock stood to his feet. The lack of food that he was refusing was getting to him; he wasn't as agile as he was before this all happened. It was the reason he was caught so easily. His clothes- a dark blue sweatshirt, black jeans, and the red converse he had insisted on- were baggy on him, so he looked smaller and weaker than he actually was. His hair was longer than it had been originally- he refused, as part of his strike, to allow Mycroft to hire someone to cut it. A long, black curl hung in his face, standing out against his cheekbones, which were pertruding much more than usual.

"Well," Sherlock said, pretending to think about it. "Probably the first time I came here, then each time I tried - and succeeded - to get out. So, around...say...50?" Sherlock's sarcasm was getting better, and inside, he beamed with self pride.

"You. Aren't. Safe," Mycroft hissed. "There is still an accomplice of Moriarty's out there that we're still trying to hunt down, and his last orders were to get you. You, Sherlock. You realize what this implies?"

"Certainly," Sherlock responded cooly. "It means that Moriarty knew about my plan to, for lack of a better expression, cheat death, and he had a separate plan all along. He knew he would die, and he knew I wouldn't. He wishes to lull me into a false sense of security before his final henchmen strikes and reeks havoc on my life. Anything I'm missing?" He questioned dramatically.

Mycroft ground his teeth. "Apparently, you're forgetting the danger you're putting John in, just by being out and about! You utter-"

The sound of footsteps padded down the hallway towards Mycroft's office door. The sound of uneven footsteps, a limp, and a cane.

Mycroft paled at the same time Sherlock grinned. "Now it doesn't seem to matter, does it, dear brother?" Sherlock chuckled. Suddenly, Holmes the younger was tackled, shoved in a wardrobe, and the door was nonchalantly barred with a chair. Sherlock huffed, then placed his ear against the wood to listen.

"...know you have him," John's muffled voice said. Sherlock's grin grew enormous- John was smart. John would find him. "Where are you keeping my flatmate, Mycroft?"

"John," Mycroft's voice sounded, the exact imitation of a concerned friend painted over his usually cavalier attitude. "I think you're tired. Have you been consuming alcohol as of late?"

"Cut the bull, Holmes, where's Sherlock?" John growled. Silently, Sherlock cheered, his stomach growling slightly.

"Hurry and find me, John, and I will take you to that Italian restaurant on 5th street that you love so much," Sherlock promised silently.

"John, he's not here. He's dead, remember? He's been dead. Three months," Mycroft softly (Falsely, Sherlock noted) reminded the army doctor.

"No, he's not! Sherlock Holmes is not dead, and I'm surprised that you, his _brother_ of all people, refuse to give up this ridiculous pretense! Now where is my friend?" John roared. The sound of something breaking permeated the air. It sounded expensive. _Good,_ Sherlock thought smugly. Nevertheless, he held his breath, waiting for Mycroft's reply.

The blasted man stayed silent, his stubborn pride preventing him from revealing Sherlock's hiding space.

Sherlock panicked. John was going to leave! The uneven footsteps were heading towards the door- he had to do something! With all the power in his body, he slammed his shoulder into the wardrobe door. He was thrown back immediately, the door being too heavy for him to move, but he accomplished his mission- John's footsteps froze, and a soft groan could be heard from Mycroft.

"What was that," John demanded, moving quickly towards the wardrobe. Mycroft immediately blocked his way. "Nothing, John, probably just a box falling. Leave it be, go home, get rest-" Mycroft was cut off by a hand to his collarbone, pushing him back enough to stumble. John tossed his cane aside without thinking and removed the chair just as Mycroft pressed the button for security. The guards came running as the heavy wooden door flew open, and Sherlock fell against John in a half embrace, half loss of balance.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, immediately pulling the undernourished man to him in a tight hug.

"John," Sherlock breathed, a real smile inhabiting his face for the first time in a while.

That smile was wiped off his face quickly when Mycroft shouted, "Damnit! Guards, get Mr. Holmes! Do kindly restrain Doctor Watson as well," And the guards filed in, pulling Sherlock away, and pinning John's hands behind his back.

"No, no, John," Sherlock panicked, shaking his head vigorously as the guards grabbed his forearms. He strained against them desperately as they pulled him down the hall. John was forced to his knees, having disposed of two guards already and became considered a threat. "Don't let them take me, John, please-"

"Enough!" Mycroft roared, but no one paid mind to him.

"I'll get you back, Sherlock! I'll get you out, I promise!" John shouted after his scared flatmate, determination flooding his body.

"-I don't want to go back, I don't like it, John, don't let them- no- please- John!" Sherlock shouted, fear and desperation evident in his voice as the guards dragged him into a room and shut the doors firmly. The click of a lock sounded soon after.

"Release him," Mycroft ordered. The pressure on John's shoulders and the hands twisting his arms behind his back released, and the men stepped back a respectful distance. John stayed on his knees for a moment, taking in everything that he knew.

"John," Mycroft asked after a moment. The doctor didn't respond. Mycroft stepped forwards, reaching out a hand to put on Dr. Watson's shoulder. "John, are you-"

Suddenly, with one fluid motion, John Hamish Watson, Bachelor John Watson, twisted his entire body around and punched Mycroft Holmes in the face.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock wasn't sure of what a tantrum was, but he was pretty sure that, whatever it was, he was throwing one.

The grown man was laying on his stomach in the army cot he had been given, his face buried in a pillow. He had been this way since the buff guards had tossed him into his tiny cement room, which, if his internal clock was correct, had been about half an hour ago.

John had been _so close-_Freedom had been so close. Sherlock had been near positive that Mycroft would allow him to leave once John knew, but apparently, he had thought wrong- Something that had been happening more frequently by the day. Mycroft was getting tricky, and harder to predict.

Sherlock cast an irritated glare in the direction of the wall to wall mirror, which he was sure Mycroft was staring at him through the other end. Damn older brother, getting in the way of happiness. Despite Mycroft's attempts to prevent Sherlock hearing news, the younger Holmes did, indeed, hear. He knew all about Mrs. Hudson's failing health (Her kidneys were giving out, and she didn't have long), and how she was going to give 221 Baker Street to her niece, Clover Williams. He had met the girl once, she was only 20. Very polite, and as open as a children's book.

Sherlock knew that John's limp was back, and that Lestrade's daughter had attempted suicide. Apparently, Lestrade was coming home angry and frustrated, and life had already been hard on the fourteen year old (She had watched her mother die when she was 9, and her brother had succeeded in suicide two years later). Lestrade had found her one day when he came home from work, passed out, slumped over the kitchen sink. She had placed one of his ties around her neck as a noose, and fed the end into the garbage disposal. She was now on life support, but unless she woke from her current coma, she would die in two weeks; the due date to take her off life support.

He knew that Harriet, John's older sister, had gotten remarried. According to the gossiping guard that occasionally gave Sherlock food, Harriet had suddenly gone straight, and wed a man named Alastair Wood, who owned a large company in Brentwood. Since Clara, Harriet's last wife, had been given a large inheritance sum right before their wedding, Sherlock had silently deduced that Harriet wasn't, in actually, straight or homosexual. She simply adjusted her sexuality to fit whoever had the most money.

None of this news made Sherlock very happy. Quite the opposite, in fact; He had actually cried tears of sadness when he realized he would never be allowed out to see Mrs. Hudson one last time, or to confront Lestrade about taking his daughter off life support. He would never get to scathingly expose Harriet's little moneygrubbing secret, nor would he be able to assist a confused John in what exactly was going on.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of the steel door opening, but he jumped anyways when it was slammed shut, flipping over to face a fuming Mycroft.

"What," The older Holmes hissed, tapping his umbrella (Sherlock often wondered why his dear brother carried the dark purple object around; it was unnecessary during the summer months, yet he toted it under his arm regardless) on the cement floor. "Did you think you were doing?"

"Exactly what I've been meaning to do for the past 5 months," Sherlock stated dryly. "Assist John in discovering my whereabouts. I believe I did a sufficient job, don't you agree?"

"A sufficient job in getting John killed!" Mycroft growled, grabbing the pillow off the army cot and whacking Sherlock in the head with it in a fit of childish anger. "I hope you realize that I'm only doing this to keep you safe, Sherlock, you and John. You fighting me constantly is not making my job any easier!"

"You're fired."

"_Very funny, Sherlock. _I'm not letting you out of here again, and I'm increasing security," Mycroft informed him. Sherlock didn't even bother with a reply; he simply rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at his older brother- Under the circumstances, he had casted away any pretense of maturity, reverting back to the mindset of a 5 year old. A very intelligent five year old.

"You were punched," Sherlock suddenly said, the beginnings of a grin on his face as he surveyed the slight cut and purple bruise that decorated Mycroft's jawline. "John punched you. Splendid. Give him my thanks, I've been wanting to do that for several months now."

The scowl remained on Mycroft's face as he stormed out of the room, the large metal door swinging soundlessly on its hinges. As soon as he was sure his older brother was gone, Sherlock flopped on the army cot, sighing through his nose and closing his eyes.

_It's alright, _he assured himself silently. _John knows. John will come for me._

* * *

John was pissed. After he had slugged Mycroft in the jaw, he was immediately escorted out, into a black government van, which drove him home. Clover was in for a nasty surprise as John brushed past her, snapping at her to keep quiet as he stormed into the flat and locked the doors. He paced the living room, formulating a plan.

"Don't worry, Sherlock, it'll be alright," He huffed, rubbing his face. "I know now, I'm coming for you."

* * *

**Please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

The very next day, John was back, pounding at Mycroft's office door.

"I know you're in there!" He shouted, his ear pressed against the polished oak. "You hardly ever leave," John remarked, leaning fully against the double doors in an attempt to get in. Everything was quiet on the other side, in Mycroft's office, but John was sure he had seen the older Holmes enter and lock the door.

"I can hear you breathing," He whispered, a grin snaking onto his face.

The door flew open with a startling jolt, a scowling Mycroft standing in its place. "You have officially crossed into creepy, Doctor Watson," He bit, folding his arms across his chest.

"Great! Good to know. Where is he?" John snarked, pushing past the Holmes brother into the office. Mycroft opened his mouth to object, but closed it with a snap when John sent him a anger filled glare.

"Not here," Mycroft assured him instead. "He's safest where he is."

"Obviously not, if he had a breakdown when you took him back!" John shouted, his eyes narrow and his voice biting. "Mycroft, he needs me," he scowled, resisting the urge to stomp his foot like a child. He glided to the wardrobe, pulling it open hastily just in case. Nothing.

"As he tells everyone constantly, Doctor, he needs no one," Mycroft smirked.

"That's bullshit, and you know it. He needs people just like everyone."

"Doctor Watson. You are not fully aware of the delicate nature of this situation," Mycroft scowled, crossing his arms and sinking slowly into his soft chair.

"Do make me aware, Holmes, or I swear, I'll find Sherlock myself," John scowled right back, crossing his arms in a mock manner.

"Before Moriarty died, he gave one last order to a sniper of his; Kill Sherlock at all costs. His colleague takes this final order incredibly seriously, and has gone into hiding. We don't know when he plans to strike, Doctor," Mycroft explained impatiently. "But we do know he fully intends to. Now, do I need to call security, or will you leave on your own?" He growled, leaning on his desk.

John snarled, stalking back towards the door in fury. "Mycroft, what you're doing is wrong. You need to stop this, it isn't good for anyone, especially Sherlock." The frustrated doctor slammed the enormous door on his way out.

Mycroft collapsed into his plush chair, his fingertips massaging his temples. John would be back; it would take much more force to keep Sherlock's only friend from attempting to bust the man out.

* * *

"One hundred and sixty," Mycroft sighed, staring down at Sherlock (who had refused to step onto the scale like a mature adult, instead opting to force his older brother to drag him across the floor like a child). "You're losing weight, Sherlock. Haven't you been eating?"

Sherlock simply glared at him in response, but the look was enough to tell Mycroft that no, Sherlock wasn't eating, instead deciding to pout and have a prolonged tantrum.

"This isn't good for your health," The elder Holmes tried to reason. Sherlock scoffed.

"Obviously," he sniffed, standing shakily on the scale and hopping off the polished metal surface. It was only three days since Sherlock had had his encounter with John, but the days showed. The already baggy clothes were positively swallowing the figure of the tall lanky man, and his shoes didn't fit him anymore; instead of getting new ones, he reserved to walking around his makeshift cell barefoot. The black jeans that he had previously been wearing had gotten too large and sagged low, so Mycroft had had them forcefully changed to light grey sweatpants. Sherlock had been apprehensive to this, and would have refused to wear pants at all, if Mycroft hadn't given the order for the heat to be turned down to 45 degrees farenheit. The cold had eventually gotten to be too much for the brunette detective, and so he begrudgingly slipped the soft material over bony hips. Mycroft turned the heat back up directly afterwards, but even so, Sherlock had gotten a mild cold (which the sulking younger Holmes had blown into an enormous life or death situation, when in reality he hardly sneezed).

"Sherlock," Mycroft scowled (more like whined, actually), cursing internally. The refined man turned on his heel to the heavy metal door, and tapped it thrice. A maid appeared instantly, her pale blue eyes electric in the expanse of her pale, sunless face. "Get me a tray of food, and a cup of Earl Grey. Two sugars, one milk," he ordered. The maid, skittish on her feet, nodded hastily, then scampered down the hallway that led to the kitchen.

"You can't keep me like this forever," Sherlock said easily. His voice was light, but dangerous, as though he was at a picnic with a gun at his temple. Mycroft's hair stood on the back of his neck. Sherlock had only used that tone of voice three times, easily, in his life; The first was when Mother and Father had been in an accident, and the other driver had run instead of taking responsibility. Sherlock had disappeared for three hours straight, and just after he returned the police found the culprit, bound and gagged as well as beaten, on the steps of the police building. The last time he ever used that tone was when Mrs. Hudson had been attacked, and Mycroft had listened to the recording of the phone call the detective had made to Lestrade.

Nevertheless, Mycroft wasn't about to give up on Sherlock's safety because of a tone of voice. "I can, and I will," he said firmly, his face twisting into the perfect shape of annoyance and aggravation. "Besides, it won't be forever. It will be until the assassin - who, if I may remind you, is on _your head_ - is caught, and put behind bars."

Sherlock folded his arms and sat on the cot, pulling his feet up and leaning on the wall behind him. "I could handle it on my own," he insisted, attempting to sound mature and snidely assuring, but an immediate sneeze took away the effect, and his scowl deepened.

The door's latch opened, and the sniveling maid with greasy hair pulled into a messy ponytail entered the room halfway, a metal tray with a bowl of soup, a ham sandwich, and a cup of tea. Sherlock scoffed, turning his back on the food, but Mycroft merely took it from the girl, setting it on the bedside table and removing the tea from the tray. He shoved it into Sherlock's unsuspecting hands.

"_Drink," _He hissed, wrapping his younger brother's slim cold hands around the heated cup. The steam curled and dipped directly under Sherlock's nose, the spices and herbs tempting him to take a sip.

Sherlock looked Mycroft directly in the eye and, without breaking eye contact, poured the hot tea onto the cement floor, the tea bag falling to the ground and resonating a wet smack around the room.

Cursing aloud, Mycroft went towards the door. As he opened it, he turned halfway to Sherlock. "When I come back, that food will. be. gone," he demanded, not even attempting to veil the fury and frustration that gave him the urge to strangle his little brother. He swung the door the rest of the way open and closed it with a loud bang, stomping down the hallway. Sherlock would have to eat eventually, or the young man would rot away in that cell before the assassin could even get to him.

And Mycroft wasn't all too sure if that wasn't a bad thing.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft sighed deeply, staring at the cup of coffee that sat on his desk. Three weeks. Three weeks since John had discovered Sherlock in the cupboard. Two weeks and four days since Sherlock decided to begin refusing food. Three weeks since his so well thought out plan went down the drain.

Taking a strained sip of his coffee, he pulled out his silver laptop with cold, slim fingers, and typed in his password. Clicking on the live security footage of Sherlock's "room", he took a deep breath, steepling his fingers and pressing them against his thin lips in saddened concentration.

Sherlock was thinner.

For over two weeks, the younger Homes refused nutrition. Nothing could persuade him to accept food, although he permitted drink. It wasn't as though they hadn't tried force, either; After a few days of trying to starve him out of the strike, placing food on his table and seeing if he'd eat it after a few days, they gave into anger and strapped him down, force feeding him soups. They had thought it had worked for about twenty minutes, until they went onto the security cameras to discover Sherlock forcing himself to regurgitate the food. After that, they went back to starving him out of it, placing the best food they could make in front of him. Being the insolent stubborn man he was, Sherlock waved each dish off with a scoff.

It showed on the man, as well; His already baggy sweatpants were even bigger on him, and instead of a healthy 160 pounds he weighed in at 130 pounds at most. If you pulled down on his T-shirt, you'd be able to see every bone in his shoulders, and if you lifted it, you'd be able to count every single rib. His hair was limp and lifeless, the usually soft, shining, bouncing curls dull and flat against his head. His skin was near translucent from lack of light, and all the blood was out of his cheeks. He complained of dizzy spells constantly, and was often disoriented if he stood even the slightest bit too fast. All in all, his entire health and physique was more than worrying.

Currently, Sherlock was sitting on his bed, all too bony legs crossed beneath him, a drawing pad and pen in his hands. His tongue stuck out slightly between his teeth as he focused on his sketch. Once in a while, he shot an angry glare in the direction of the security camera, as if daring Mycroft to be watching him. His older brother smirked.

"Father, if you could see your son now," He muttered quietly to himself, chuckling slightly. Their father had never been the best; He had always wanted more than they could give both education wise and skill. Sherlock spent his entire life trying to prove his father's derogatory statements wrong. He had succeeded, but only after the car accident that took their father's life. Of course, Sherlock didn't know that. He always thought his father wanted more, and now that he was gone, there was no way of Sherlock being able to stop on a good conscience. Their father couldn't tell him that he was proud anymore.

Mycroft's eyes whipped back towards the screen as Sherlock moved suddenly, catching his eye. The younger Holmes had stood, intending to go towards the door to grab someone's attention outside, but stopped short in the middle of the floor. His hands had flown up to his temples, massaging them slightly. As Mycroft watched, his fingers hovering over the alert button that would call doctors to the room immediately, Sherlock slumped to the ground, cracking his head on the floor.

Mycroft's palm slammed into the bright red button, and immediately a team of doctors and nurses flooded the room, checking his pulse and calling an ambulance. Mycroft watched in sadness and despair before hesitantly taking out his phone, staring at it for a moment before calling the number. He'd need to know.

* * *

John picked up immediately. "Mycroft?" He said, mildly surprised. "You're calling my cell this time. That's different."

"You're needed at Saint Barts Memorial Hospital right away." Mycroft's voice was strained, and the clipped way that he said his words cued John into what the British Government was feeling.

"Why? Did something happen?"

"Sherlock."

"On my way." John's words were immediate and he flipped his phone shut, ending the call.

"I am so sorry, Alcie," He said, stuffing his phone in his pocket and grabbing his wallet. "But something's happened. I hate to cut our date short..."

"It's fine, it sounded important," She said, standing as he put the payment on the table. "Call me later, alright?"

"Of course!" He smiled, the curl of his lips tight and not at all happy. She kissed his cheek, and the stressed smile slowly turned into a real one. She grinned at him as she waved, leaving him in the cafe.

Shaking his head, he pulled on his jacket, marching quickly out the door. His best friend needed him.


End file.
